I know that what I see depends on
Colour of my iris
It's made of my confusing immunity
So accuse only my thoughts
That they're flowing too slow
To deprive me of stablity
In painful inheritance of my past
Do not try to expose me
We both don't want to know that conclusion.
Better to feed your eyes
With incomplete reality.
Colour of my iris
It's made of my confusing immunity
So accuse only my thoughts
That they're flowing too slow
To deprive me of stablity
In painful inheritance of my past
Do not try to expose me
We both don't want to know that conclusion.
Better to feed your eyes
With incomplete reality.